


Us ones in between

by twirls



Category: Once (2006) RPF, The Swell Season (Band) RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twirls/pseuds/twirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” says Rob, kicking off his shoes in the doorway and tossing his room key on the side table, “Markéta's pissed.”</p>
<p>He can hear his wife in the bathroom, clattering around. Rob lies back on the unmade bed. A hair dryer whirrs. Some quiet cursing follows. Silence. </p>
<p>“Don't you want to -”</p>
<p>“No,” says Cherie. “Please don't tell me. I don't want to know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Us ones in between

**Author's Note:**

> _How hard was it to continue the working relationship after the romantic one had ended?_
> 
> I think the hardest thing is just getting used to the person not being around and not being able to hang out with them anymore. Or in our case, getting used to a different way of being with the person. New boundaries, that was the hardest thing about it for me personally, getting my head around respecting the boundaries and breaking whatever patterns we had created. We couldn’t continue acting like a couple. That was the hardest part. 
> 
> (Hot Press, 2009)

That morning, Glen wakes up two hours after he falls asleep. The room is in pitch darkness, but it could be any time. He pushes back those thick curtains so ubiquitous in American hotels and looks down at the parking lot below. It's nearly empty – a couple minivans and the tour bus giving off an eery glow in the non-committal light. His watch says six thirty. What a fucking ridiculous time to be awake. He pulls last night's trousers on over his boxers and throws on a jumper. The reflection in the bathroom mirror is bleary-eyed and fuzzy at the edges. He scoops a handful of water over his eyes and mouth, rubs his cheeks, his beard, bulges his eyes. Still there. Still fucking there.

Room key in-hand, he walks down the hallway, opens a door, and makes his way up a set of thin-carpeted stairs. The rooftop has two sets of deck chairs, three trash cans, and, sitting on her hands at the edge of a swimming pool, Mar. Her jeans are rolled up to the knee, feet dangling in the water. She looks up as Glen emerges from the staircase, and then away. It's supremely quiet up here. Mar stares off into the distance, at the concrete wall, or beyond it. Her expression is unreadable. Glen is feeling – well, he's feeling. He takes off his trousers.

Barefoot in his boxers in the middle of Who Fucking Cares, USA. He sits down next to Mar, who watches only his legs as they swish back in forth in the water next to hers. Both at once, scissors, one leg at a time, slowly, quickly, slowly, to the beat of Eye of the Tiger. He wonders if the right thing to do would be to apologize right now – just get it out there and be done. He makes the mistake of looking at her face. Oh, Jesus. 

I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm sorry I dragged you here again. I'm sorry my mouth keeps falling on your face every time we stand next to each other for more than a second. I'm sorry you're too polite to tell me to fuck off loud enough for my sodding brain to ever hear it. I'm sorry it's six in the morning and we're sitting here not saying anything and I fucking love you and I'm sorry for saying so last night, through your hotel room door, at four in the fucking morning. I know what you think, but I wasn't sloshed. I'm just an asshole, he thinks, and I haven't got a fucking clue.

He keeps his mouth shut.

He twists his knee to the side and pokes her shin with his foot. He does it again, apologetically, he hopes.

Mar lifts her legs out of the water and stands up. His neck creaks up to watch her. The sky behind her head is a murky, graying pink. Her eyes are, finally, finally, locked on his.

“You're an idiot,” she says, and, thumbs slipping under the hem, takes off her shirt. Glen's brain checks out entirely. In half a moment, there's a pair of jeans lying folded next to him, and his ex-girlfriend is half a pool length away in her underwear, treading water. 

“Go away,” she calls. 

He does, still stunned. He takes her clothes with him. It's a childish move, but fuck. He guesses he's just an asshole like that. 

 

-

 

“So,” says Rob, kicking off his shoes in the doorway and tossing his room key on the side table, “Markéta's pissed.”

He can hear his wife in the bathroom, clattering around. Rob lies back on the unmade bed. A hair dryer whirrs. Some quiet cursing follows. Silence. 

“Don't you want to -”

“No,” says Cherie. “Please don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

“Oh, come on!”

“No!”

Cherie emerges from the bathroom looking, near as Rob can tell, exactly the same as when she went in earlier, but what does he know about women? He sits up.

“I like your hair,” he says, not entirely disingenuously. She smiles. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, buster.” 

Her arms go to his shoulders and then around the back of his neck. He starts to lean back but she resists, dropping a quick kiss to the top of his head and moving away, a last sweep to collect power cords and stray socks. 

Things are packed, coffee consumed, extra creamers pocketed for later use, and they're checked out and in the hotel lobby by nine thirty. 

Glen and Joe are slouched in paisleyed armchairs, looking sullen. Colm and Mar have gone for a walk. Simon and Graham are chatting up an elderly couple by the donut spread. While Cherie double-checks her maps with the front-desk clerk, Rob picks up his bag and heads out the glass doors to the parking lot. 

Two steps out onto the sidewalk, the air hits him, still and chilled. There's a dingy looking sandwich shop visible across the two dull asphalt lanes of highway. Scatterings of scrawny trees cluster at the corners of both lots. Middle America. The Irish boys can be assholes about it, but it is, perhaps, an acquired taste. 

Mar and Colm are walking down the curve of the exit ramp. Their heads are bowed, hands in pockets. At this distance, he can't see the expressions on their faces, but their movements are calm. Colm's angular body looms over Mar's, who matches his pace with smooth strides. They lean in together, moving against the wind. 

Rob crosses to the tour bus, which rises sleek and silver above him. He swings open the door and hauls his bag up the steps, tossing it onto the front passenger seat. He picks up the few coffee cups scattered on the back table along with yesterday's newspaper and hauls the whole mess across the parking lot to a trash can. 

Back in the lobby, Simon is trying to herd their group outside. It does not appear to be going well. Cherie is ensconced in conversation with the older woman by the coffee carafe. Joe has slipped out somewhere for a smoke, and Glen, far from being packed, has taken out his guitar again and is strumming listlessly. Rob sits down in the armchair Joe vacated. 

“It's a nice day,” he says.

“Hmm,” says Glen. 

“Fancy a swim?”

“Fuck off!” Glen laughs. 

Rob lets the silence hang. He breathes, watches Cherie talking in the corner. Glen strums a chord. His smile is crooked and half-formed. 

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Yeah.” Rob settles further into his chair. “Yeah, sure.”

 

-

 

On the bus after the show, they watch a documentary – something to do with whales – but Glen's not paying attention. 

They won't stop tonight, driving straight across two states and south through California to reach Los Angeles by the next evening. The lads all hate these nights on the bus, but Mar has it worst. Trapped on a bus with a bunch of guys who think they're rockstars. She's sleeping curled up on the half of the couch Joe's not occupying. Glen tries not to look at her too obviously at first, but he's not sure who he's playing to. No one's watching now. 

Joe stares transfixed at the television screen, where a huge orca is slowly surfacing. Time drags on thickly in the dark. Glen takes a last drink of his beer and drops the empty bottle to the floor by his seat. The sound of the thump, soft as it is, or the flash of lights from a passing car, startles Markéta out of her sleep. Her eyes blink quickly and then open as she pushes herself up from the couch. She yawns and pushes the hair out of her face. Her fingers thread around the back of her neck as she arches her back to stretch. The hem of her sweater rises up.

Not that Glen is watching. 

Of course he's watching.

Fuck. 

There's something to the softness of her face, the sleep lingering in the slouch of shoulders, the weight of breath. He is caught in it. 

She stands and catches his eye, nods to the back of the bus, to the bunks. For an insane moment this movement, this glance, this turn, fall entirely out of time, and his brain goes- . 

The walk to the back of the bus seems interminable. She lets him reach for her hand. When they sit down together on the bottom bunk his knees creak, breaking the spell. A mournful below sounds from some strange whale, its story lost on everyone but Joe. 

Markéta has one of her hands on his knee. Boundaries – they're slow learners both of them. 

“I would like my clothes back,” she says.

“Yeah,” says Glen. “I know.”


End file.
